Estranged
by SomeKindofAuthor
Summary: When Angela returns from a prolonged stay in Europe, she's determined to fix the mess that she finds, not realizing that she's a mess in herself. Warning: I will probably never complete this story, but cleaning out my fanfiction folder, I had to post it.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This story has been done to death, I know. Hopefully I've brought some originality to this cliché.

**Angela Moore**

"Ms. Moore."

"Mr. Feeny." Angela nodded in the direction of her former teacher as though she just happened to be passing by in the neighborhood; as though she just happened to be standing on his porch for the last five minutes; as though there hadn't been a motive, and she was just looking to catch up with her past instructor's happenings since she had been gone. "Been a long time."

Mr. Feeny set down his gardening tools. "One might dare to say that it has been too long, Ms. Moore." His hands fidgeted in that constant Feeny-habit of his, but, always perceptive, Angela noticed that there was something wrong in Mr. Feeny's stare. He didn't look at her; his gaze was fixed off in the distance as though a slide reel of the past years' events was playing off somewhere near the horizon and he was reliving each memory. They didn't seem fun.

Angela looked, but didn't see anything. Of course not. She'd been gone for too long.

"One might."

At her words, George Feeny snapped from his trance and returned to the conversation with a fake smile. Angela knew people, and his smile and good-natured laugh were completely meant to throw her off the scent. Too late, Feeny.

"I am sure that promptly upon landing in America you rushed to visit Mr. Hunter?"

Angela coughed. Nice tactics, Feeny, throwing Shawn out like that. She approved of his underhandedness. She gave him mental-props, but then returned to her own attack. There was, after all, a _reason_ why she had come to her old teacher's house when she'd never bothered to make the trip there before.

"Uh, no. Actually, I rushed to visit Cory and Topanga. Or, I guess I should say, first Cory and then Topanga." Her eyes honed in on Feeny's, anxious to see what he'd make of that statement.

Mr. Feeny slipped off his gardening gloves and set them on his fence. "So you know, then, the current state of the union?"

Angela continued. "They told me about Shawn." _Watch his eyes._

"Then you are also privy to… ah… what's going on in his life?"

"Yes, Mr. Feeny, I am privy. I'm so privy that I can't stand it. And I'm not sure if it's me being gone for three years, or if this is where their lives would have eventually come to—but I'm back and I won't stand for this."

"Is that why you are on my porch steps, Ms. Moore?"

"You're a link, Mr. Feeny. Even if the relationships between them have broken, you're what they can all trace themselves back to. I bet they haven't stopped writing to you about their lives. Am I right?"

"You are."

"They still love you. I'm sure that they still love each other, but some gear in their minds that helps them see that has stopped turning, so I can't work with that. But they still love you, and I _can_ work with that."

"Do you have a plan, Angela?"

The old man quirked a smile, and Angela Shanaynay Moore flashed a mischievous one of her own.

"Yes, Feeny, I do."

**Shawn Hunter**

"I am cordially invited to Mr. Feeny's birthday party. Hunh."

Shawn's fingers drummed against the café's table. His eyes burned holes in the invitation as though dissecting each sentence into each individual word into each individual letter as though there were some kind of code. When he was sure that Feeny wasn't trying to dispatch an SOS to him through a perfectly innocent looking party invitation, he put down the paper, leaned back in his chair and sighed.

His eyelids closed and became a screen for old memories.

Naturally any thoughts of Feeny brought thoughts of Feeny's porch and the endless encounters with reality he'd had there. Feeny's porch led to the Matthew's porch which led to Cory Matthew which led to unspeakable horrors.

Okay, so the tangent only led to pangs of regret and to his conscience _Tsk, tsk, tsk_-ing at his life choices yet again. For Shawn, though, that pretty much equated to unspeakable horrors.

He'd wonder why he hadn't spoken to Cory or Topanga in years, but he pretty much knew the answer. Pondering over it wasn't going to change the fact that it was all Angela's fault.

Angela's fault. If she had come back like she said she would, if she hadn't made it painfully clear how different Shawn's life was from Cory's, if she hadn't kept him holding on to some unreachable _past_ while his two best friends sped head on into the future with plans for a kid and a house and a _life_ together, then Shawn wouldn't have reversed himself. Shawn wouldn't have jumped off the treadmill going forward. He wouldn't have had to watch with longing as his friends jogged their way into the broad range of opportunities calling out for them. And then he wouldn't have had to start on a treadmill of his own except facing the opposite way as he ran, blinders on, into the past.

There he was stuck, digging his heels into tenth grade as Cory and Topanga eased on toward the horizon.

And it was all Angela's fault.

She left him waiting.

"A year," she promised on the phone. "I swear, I'll be back within your arms in a year."

His arms had suddenly felt cold as some imaginary breeze wafted through the spot where she should have been. And every day for three hundred and sixty five days, his arms had felt cold. But he also felt hopeful because each calendar day thrown in the waste bin was another day closer to her warmth. So he waited. That was the good year, Shawn believed thinking back on it. She called every week, and when she didn't call one week, she'd make it up to him by talking an entire day about everything and nothing and all the things in between.

And then that day that would live in infamy, whose conversation still caused his heart to prick uncomfortably.

"Shawn! Great news! I've been asked to write a weekly article for a magazine. I pitched the idea to Maggie, and she loved it. Of course she pitched it to Burmester as her own, but I got the job. A world-wide scavenger hunt, although it's not so much about getting the items as it is writing about _how_ I did. Going to exotic places, searching for the weirdest things like a used tissue of a Scotsman… The title's not finalized yet. Any ideas?"

Any ideas? She had honestly expected him to give nonchalant suggestions about the very thing that was going to take her away from his arms for another year?

But he had.

He'd offered a witty, cleverly spun suggestion that made Angela laugh and compliment him. If she heard his voice suddenly dip, suddenly become soft and vulnerable, she gave no indication. She was happy. He heard that in _her_ voice. That's why he didn't stop her. That's why she stayed that extra year.

Maybe that part was his fault.

But she didn't have to stay for another year after her job ended. And that was _her_ fault.

**Cory Matthews**

"Feeny! Turning the big Six-Seven. If _that_ isn't cause for celebration, what… is…?"

He had every right to stare at the ornately decorated card with confusion. Who threw a grand party for their sixty-seventh birthday? But then, wasn't Feeny always a little shifty? Probably had a hidden agenda. Probably wanted to lecture Cory on how his life had spiraled from So Much Potential. A teacher's favorite word, "potential". And he should know as he had spent most of his student-teaching trying to imprint that word in the head of every third grader he taught.

He wondered whose side Feeny would be on. His or Topanga's?

Oh. Crap. He would have to see Topanga again, wouldn't he?

What was this? This sudden—sudden _tug_ at his stomach there? And this constriction in his chest? No. He could not be looking _forward_ to seeing Topanga. He could not be getting anxious at the thought of seeing his ex-wife (though they hadn't legally separated, had they?) in the flesh with Feeny as a buffer.

Feeny.

Feeny would definitely be on his side. After all, they had Porch-Loyalty. Once neighbors, always neighbors. All of those heart-to-hearts had to mean _something_, didn't they?

But then, was their separation really about sides? Had either of them really done anything to warrant strategic armies and war tactics? No. All that had happened was Topanga's inability to produce a child. Or his inability. Or—to not put blame on any of the involved parties—the fact that it had been two years since their decision to try and become a three-person family, and still nothing.

Four of those months of infertility had been due to the fact that Cory and Topanga no longer lived in the same building. No longer spoke to each other let alone kiss let alone do anything under the sheets leading up to child bearing.

There were no sides. The blame belonged to no one. If Topanga blamed him or herself, he wished that she could tell her that. No one was to blame.

So why were they still estranged?

"Maybe…" Cory whispered to his empty apartment.

Feeny was a smart guy. Practically a genius. Alvin Einstein had nothing on him.

Maybe Feeny would know?

Mmkay. He had decided. He'd go to the party and he'd make small talk with friends of Feeny who he didn't know and then he'd ask Feeny how to make it up to Topanga.

His stomach tugged upward and his chest felt like a hot water balloon had just burst open.

So, okay, he was looking forward to seeing Topanga.

**Topanga Lawrence-Matthews**

_"Celebrate the birthday of your favorite educator, advisor and old-guy."_

Her life wasn't that bad.

Yes, she had immersed herself in work, staying hours so late at the school that she spent maybe twenty minutes at home before heading out again on some big project. Yes, she lived for her schedule because she hated heading "home", her home that wasn't her home because home was with Cory, and without Cory her apartment was just an asphyxiating box. It wasn't home.

But! Her life wasn't that bad.

…

Allrighty. Her life was crap. She admitted it. And it was her fault.

Topanga rubbed her temples and sifted absentmindedly through insignificant papers on her desk. A vanilla colored card stood out and Topanga moved the few papers on top of it so that she could read the script.

_"To Mrs. Topanga Matthews, you are cordially invited to George Feeny's Sixty-Seventh Birthday."_

_Mrs. Topanga Matthews._

Mrs. Topanga Matthews. Legally, yes. Emotionally, physically, no. She was no longer Cory Matthew's wife. And it was her fault.

She had done this. She had created this rift between them. The countless pregnancy tests thrown away in anger and sorrow had eventually eaten away at her until she started blaming Cory. Already, hadn't he admitted several times that he felt inadequate compared to her? And the fact that she was excelling in her new job that everyone loved her at work for her diligence and her hard work had to have been grating at his esteem. So did she have to yell at him? And did she have to make him feel inferior? And did she have to tell him that it was _his_ fault that they couldn't produce a child?

And then, that after she finally became pregnant, did she have to tell him that her miscarriage was his fault?

"Inadequate man, inadequate sperm."

What a warm and loving wife. Topanga never doubted Cory's decision to separate for a moment. She had been out of whack and she hadn't been ready for that kind of pain, but that hadn't been reason enough to lash out at her husband and dredge up some of his darkest insecurities.

Cory would be there. Of course Cory would be there. Cory got the off-white invitation with the golden script in the fancy-curlicue font. And even though not many people made such big deals out of their sixty-seventh birthday, Cory would fling himself on the nearest plane to Philly to celebrate with old Mr. Feeny.

And Topanga would fling right after him. Because after four months of this life (her crappy life, she'll finally admit), Topanga was ready to relax and take a break and to _finally_ go home.

Topanga was finally heading home: to Cory.

If Cory would take her, that is.

**A/N: **Was digging through the FanFiction folder on my computer. Then, figuring that I'll probably never write anything new, I won the debate with myself over posting the good portions of what I've written. Hopefully, I'm right in believing that this is a good portion and not a mediocre portion that Boy Meets World lovers will sneer at.

Also, if some bits sound strange, they're probably an obscure reference to Boy Meets World episodes that I have watched for the umpteenth time at the expense of my health and social skills.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **This story has been done to death, I know. Hopefully I've brought some originality to this cliché.

**Angela Moore**

"Oh, come _on_, Feeny. Let's get festive."

"I don't understand. If this gathering is all just a ruse to lure them in for an unexpected intervention… why do I have to wear a birthday hat?"

"It makes you look adorable, Feeny."

"It makes me look like sixty-seven year old man longing to be six years old again, and I won't stand for it. I might as well frolic in a field of daisies, in overalls, my tennis shoes caked with mud!"

"Purple or yellow? Or—ooh! Polka dots."

"Ms. Moore. I am your elder and I put my foot down at this ridiculousness and demand that you listen to me!"

At Angela's demanding glare, however, Feeny faltered.

"Polka dots, please."

Angela grinned. No, this wasn't a true sixty-seventh birthday party. And, yes, her insistence that Feeny wear a birthday hat and a name tag that read "I Am the Birthday Boy" was partly for her own amusement. But she would also spare no expense, look over no detail to make sure that everything was perfect.

"Would you like a clown at your party, Mr. Feeny? He can make you a balloon-hat. Would you like a balloon hat, Mr. Feeny? Or—ooh! Maybe a SWORD for the big birthday boy!"

Okay. That had been just to see the look on his face. And it had been worth it.

**Shawn Hunter**

Shawn peered down at the notepad in his hand. It was a list. He was good at lists. This list had been revised several times over, pen and Crayon scratching incessantly as he wrote his life story.

Shawn turned to the little eleven year old girl sitting next to him on the bench. Her mommy was out getting a corn dog for the both of them. He was safe to speak to her without the risk of being named a pedophile.

"Can I try this out on you?" Shawn asked. The girl shrugged which he took as an enthusiastic "Go ahead!" response.

_"Ahem,"_ Shawn said. "Upon graduating from Harvard, I was immediately scouted by Time magazine. I was brilliant and witty and they loved me so much that they threw me a party every Wednesday because they couldn't believe their luck at getting the best author in the country. They offered me a book deal on my success story. _From Trash to Time_, I called it. Why haven't you seen my book in any stores? There's a good answer for that. The book was so gritty, so_ honest_, and so unbelievably brilliant that all the other authors got jealous. They threatened to kill me if my book got published. They offered compensation if I would just throw my book to the bottom of the sea. That's how I got this mansion, right here on top of this glorious hill. Loads of property, acres upon miles all owned by me. See that? That's the Atlantic Ocean. I own that, too. I—"

Shawn stopped and looked inquisitively at the little girl. Her hand was up.

"Erm, yes. Little girl in the yellow poncho. Do you have a question?"

"Is this for school? Are you writing a paper on how to B.S. your way through life or something?"

Shawn's jaw dropped. He stammered. "I—it wasn't good?"

The girl quirked her left eyebrow. _"_'_I own the Atlantic Ocean?' _Really?"

Shawn extracted a Crayon from his pocket and crossed out that sentence. "Okay—how about, um… I own the Gulf of Mexico? No one's claimed that yet, have they?"

The girl looked like she was deciding between slapping her own forehead out of frustration, or standing on the bench and strangling Shawn. He was deeply offended.

"How about," the girl suggested, "you just tell the truth?"

Shawn snorted. "The truth?" he asked incredulously. "Babe, you don't want to know the truth."

"I'm betting you that the truth is a lot more believable than you owning the _ocean._ What can be so bad that you have to make up such an obviously _fake_ future?"

"Having no future at all. Having only present and past. Having reverted back to the same low-grade, poor-class scum that I was in high school."

"Poor old man," the sixth grader said sympathetically. "Having a crappy life and then unable to make up a good lie. It must suck to be you."

Her mother came back, handed her a corn-dog, and with another pitying look (how pathetic is that? Being pitied by a sixth grader!) she left him on the bench. Alone.

Sigh.

Back to the drawing board.

"Upon graduating Pennbrook University, I did absolutely nothing with my life, instead deciding to follow my friends like the third wheel puppy I'd always been. Until they finally decided to kick the puppy out in favor of an actual _life,_ leaving me with nothing but memories to look back on, long for and eventually re-live."

**Cory Matthews**

"Hello Topanga. I know that you pretty much hate me. I know that I ruined your plan for the rest of your life… But I brought you a cinnamon bun. You _love _those. Hey! How about a deal? Your love back for a sticky-bun? A Twinkie? Hostess cupcake?"

Bargaining with snack cakes. With Cory's luck, Topanga would take it as Cory saying she's fat or he values her so little that he would trade her life for some Zebra cakes. But, honestly, this is what Cory had been reduced to. Going so low that he would do anything, even give up his precious afternoon snack to get in good favor with Topanga again.

And how was he supposed to greet her, anyway? Act like everything was okay? Or beg for her forgiveness? Beg for forgiveness for a mistake he hadn't known that he'd made.

"Hey, Topanga, I'm sorry that I haven't kept in touch. After you packed your things and left me, I probably should have sent you periodic check-ups on my situation. You know, on Tuesday, the day after you left, I sat on the toilet and cried for the entire day before retiring to my bed to weep until I threw up. How'd you spend the day? The weather was nice; did you go to the park?"

But—wait. Why was it _Cory's_ job to apologize and beg and reveal pride-diminishing facts about his life Post-Topanga? Shouldn't Topanga have some of the responsibility of fixing things?

If she even wanted things to be fixed.

Well there is _that_.

Cory collected his money from the ATM and got back into his car. He cruised around doing nothing for nothing just trying to prolong the moment before having to face his death. Hey. It could be worse. She _could have_ called. She _could have_ called and said something like, "Hey, Cory Matthews. Jerk. Scum. Pissant. I never want to see you again. I spit on everything that reminds me of you. This guy in the grocery store? His name is Cory. I spit on him too. I hate you."

But she _hadn't_.

Cory counted that as a victory.

**Topanga Lawrence-Matthews**

She was dressed impeccably. She was dressed to kill. Her heels were made for strutting around Feeny's home without a semblance of regret for her life. Even if behind her war-painted face she felt like up-chucking at seeing Cory, it wouldn't matter. Topanga knew how to put on a show. She knew how to fake it. Even if she was dying inside, she knew how to fake it.

"Hon, just don't let him see you without a smile," Jasmine instructed over the phone.

"What if I smile through my tears?" Topanga looked at her morose expression in the mirror and concluded that it was a definite possibility.

"As long as they're tears of joy," Jasmine demanded.

"And if they're not?" Topanga asked. "If they're tears because I stupidly left my husband and haven't had the nerve to call him back to tell him _why,_ so everything's gotten all twisted and he probably thinks I'm a horrid she-witch and throws darts at my pictures at night and has bonfires where he creates voodoo dolls and tosses them in?"

Jasmine was speechless, gaping into the phone before asking in incredulity, "What kind of man _was_ your husband?"

"Trust me, Jasmine. That's the kind of thing that Cory would do."

"He sounds schizo."

"But I love him." She left stupidly and never contacted him after that day. But she did still love him.

"Which is why I don't understand why you're going with Plan B and not Plan A. Plan A being stomping in that party with your man-killer boots and reclaiming him for your own. Plan B being taking the easy way out and pretending that nothing's wrong even though you can't even come back to the apartment because you hate being reminded that he's not there with you."

"Because_ I_ left _him_, Jasmine. How can I ask for forgiveness?"

"You can't," Jasmine acquiesced with a sigh. Jasmine didn't agree with Topanga. She only gave in because she knew that any arguments were fruitless and Topanga's mind was made up to completely ignore Plan A.


	3. Chapter 3

**Angela Moore**

"I know Cory, Topanga and Shawn. They'll be _pissed_. They adore setting people up for their little schemes, but they despise being set up themselves. Shawn especially. He'll feel trapped. He'll want to flee. And _that_," Angela twirled to face her newest ally, "is where you come in, Private Matthews. You must stop them from leaving at any cost."

Eric Matthews had insisted that if he was going to help out, he was going to be a Private. He was even dressed for the part, and stood erect with his hand in salute at his forehead. Back straight, knees together, feet firmly planted on the ground. Angela wondered how her father would feel about Eric playing dress-up.

"Sir, yes, SIR!" Eric yelled.

Angela nodded. "Are we ready Mr. Feeny?"

Feeny emerged from the doorway to his kitchen. He nodded. "The preparations have been made; 2 guestrooms readied in the wake of Mr. Matthews, Ms. Lawrence and Mr. Hunter's arrival. I take it you're not going to be staying here?"

Angela waved a dismissive hand. "No, I'll stay at a hotel somewhere nearby."

Feeny raised an eyebrow, and Angela considered butting heads with the old man to inquire what his inquisitive look was all about, but the doorbell rang just then and her heart became too much of a distraction to think about anything else.

"Sir, the doorbell, SIR!"

"Shall I get that, Ms. Moore?"

"Sir, my hand is getting tired, SIR!"

"Angela?"

Angela shook her head free from stupor, slightly irritated at herself for losing her cool. To safely execute her plan she had to have a level head. None of these irritating, body convulsing pulses coming from her heart. Keep it cool, Angela.

"Sir, I'm becoming numb, SIR!"

"At ease, soldier," Angela announced, quite liking the feeling of ordering someone about. "No worries, Mr. Feeny, I'll get the door."

Angela righted her composure before walking down the hallway with a commanding stride hoping that some of the attitude from her walk would suffuse to her head and get her in the mindset that she needed.

Of course, no amount of attitude could have prepared her for what she saw at the door.

Shawn Patrick Hunter.

**Shawn Hunter**

He fiddled with the slip of paper in his pocket, his heart suddenly swelling to dangerous rib-cage-breaking sizes.

_Crud_.

This was just freaking _peachy._

"H-hello!" Angela squeaked.

Maybe he would have taken some comfort in the fact that she seemed just as shattered as he was. He didn't, though, because _nothing_ could stop his heavily palpitating heart.

He struggled for something to say. Should he start his speech? Crud, what was he thinking? His speech? She would see right through the lies. Probably laugh at him.

He fumbled to find something that wasn't transparent, something that wouldn't be a guide leading those dark eyes straight into depths of truth he wanted to keep away from her. She wasn't allowed there. Not anymore.

"You see the banner?" he muttered, nodding his head to the driveway where a 20 ft banner was displayed across the front of Feeny's house exclaiming about the 67th birthday party of the beloved teacher. Decorated in lavish colors with curly-cues and some fancy font, it made Shawn almost succumb to a giggling fit. And he would have if he hadn't been filled with dread.

"Yeah, well, maybe it's there to make sure that people remembered the way here. People these days seem to be in a habit of _forgetting_ the important things."

Angela's voice hardly squeaked at her statement. She stared pointedly at Shawn. She was trying to accuse him of forgetting something. Like he was in the wrong. As though she didn't realize the wrongs that she herself had caused him over the years. He didn't like that. He butted back.

"Right," Shawn agreed with obvious hostility. "I guess there's something about the Atlantic Ocean that causes amnesia."

Angela's eyes grew wide, and her lips pressed together. She took a step back. "Come in." Her voice took on a tone that Shawn couldn't place, but that he knew he wasn't comfortable with.

Not that he could ever be comfortable in this house with her in it. And more guests on the way.

**Angela Moore**

Her viewpoint seemed ridiculous and childish in hindsight, but Angela had never considered the option that Shawn might arrive first. That she might have had to deal with him first—alone.

She had given _no thought_ into what she would say. There were many things that she should have said—explanations, apologies—but she didn't. She sat across from him at Feeny's large table.

She respected a man who maintained eyesight; especially in wary situations. She thought someone who couldn't hold their own in a staring contest was a wimp and a pansy.

Angela was a pansy.

Her eyes traced patterns on the wooden table all the while trying to find a way out of this itchy situation. All of her felt exposed and vulnerable because there was a variable in the room that she could not control. Feeny would bend to what she would say after a few persuasive arguments especially because he knew how important this was. And she was sergeant to Eric's private—he had to obey her orders.

Shawn didn't.

Shawn was variable—he always had been. She'd never been able to guess where he was going next. Some of his moves seemed predictable (the way he always seemed to _run_, for instance. Or maybe that was only predictable because Angela experienced the same tendency herself), but sometimes she couldn't for the life of her figure out how Shawn's head worked, and she was forced to resort to guessing.

She hated guessing.

She hated Shawn being there when no one else was. She wanted to yell for Eric to go get that chloroform so that she could wait for her next guest, one who'd left less of a skid mark on her past.

But at the same time, she really wanted to talk to him.

Hypocrite. Indecisive. Wishy-washy. _Flip-flopper._

She missed talking to him. She missed bouncing irrelevant hypothetical situations on him and watching him find the positive—because Shawn always managed to find the positive in everything. Except when it dealt with him. Angela wanted to reach across the table, cover his hand with hers, and with that gesture, seal all schisms between them. She wanted to laugh with him. Let's laugh, Shawn.

Let's cry, Shawn.

But no. They never cried together. Maybe that had been wrong. Maybe they should have shed a few tears in front of each other. Maybe they shouldn't have been so afraid of weakness.

Would that have solved anything?

Would that have—

"Was I early?"

His voice was like steel. Sharp enough to cut through Angela's thought stream.

Angela looked to the clock above his head. It was 5:45PM. The party was supposed to officially start at 6. "Yes," she answered.

"Then I'll leave, and I'll come back at…?"

"Six."

"Six. I'll leave and come back at six." Shawn stared her down as though waiting for something. When he received nothing, he picked up his bag from the floor, shrugged it on his shoulders and headed for the doorway.

He walked two steps before being intercepted by a man in a navy blue army uniform.

"I'm afraid, I can't let you do that, Shawnie."

"Eric?"

**Shawn Hunter**

"That's PRIVATE ERIC to YOU Shawn!" Eric barked at him.

Shawn was stunned into paralysis. "You're early, too?" he asked dumbly.

"_Ennh,"_ Eric grunted the nasally noise of a game show buzzer to inform Shawn that he'd gotten it wrong. "I am here to do Sir Angela's bidding. And Sir does not want you to leave."

Shawn's eyebrows met his hairline. "What?"

Angela rose to control the situation. "Eric! What did we go over in the instruction pamphlet? Rule Number One?"

"Right. We're not supposed to tell Shawn about the SECRET!"

Angela slapped her forehead.

Shawn yanked Eric's hand from his arm. "What secret?" he demanded of Eric. But Eric shook his head and held a finger to his lips.

"I'm not allowed to tell you about Angela's plan."

"Eric!" Angela shrieked. "If you shut-up right now, I'll let you play with the balloon pump later…"

Eric's eyes brightened immediately, and Angela breathed a sigh of relief that her bargaining worked well. Shawn eyed the both of them.

That would have to change.

He turned on Angela. "What secret? What are you keeping from me?"

Angela's eyes narrowed. "I—"

_Ding Dong._

Face showing visible relief, Angela moved her way past Shawn. "Another guest, gotta get that!" she cried in a voice that screamed _Thank God_.

Shawn stood in the kitchen watching Angela move into the foyer where she would pick up the next guest. Making certain that she was fully occupied with her task, Shawn shifted gears, turning to Eric. He lifted something from his pocket and waved it tauntingly in front of Eric's face. Shawn watched with a satisfied smile as Eric's eyes followed the package back and forth.

"I'll give you this Hostess cupcake, for a little information about this secret."

"Done."

Eric snatched the snack cake from Shawn's eager hands. Eric was a Satisfaction _Now_ kind of guy. A chocolate cake in front of his face outweighed any promise Angela had made even for five minutes from now.

"So—you going to tell me?"

"Ha! And risk the wrath of Angela? She's almost as bad as Topanga when she gets fired up, and, I _still_ have scars from Pangers's last attack. No, Shawnie, I don't win over that easily."

Shawn was still growling when Topanga Lawrence stepped into the kitchen.

**Topanga Lawrence-Matthews**

"Angela!"

"Topanga!"

_This_ reunion was easy. A hug. A kiss on the cheek. A "My gosh, you look so _great_. I _love_ your hair!" Several meaningless compliments were exchanged as the two women walked into the kitchen. This was the standard greeting. It felt completely stiff and formal and card-board cut-out of a commercial, but Topanga could deal with this because she knew this was the easy part. She savored that.

"How've you been?" Angela asked, teeth showing. Maybe her smile was fake, or maybe not, but something was strained and weary about her once best friend, Topanga saw it.

"I've been fine." Standard answer. No varying from the script here. Though Angela had made a brief visit to Topanga a few weeks before, she hadn't stayed long. Topanga probably didn't seem all that inviting. She hadn't wanted to put forth the effort.

But this sort of thing required no effort. And Topanga almost figured that she could _do_ this, she could make it through this party with sanity intact.

Until Cory arrived. But right now it was just Topanga, Angela, Eric and… Shawn.

"Hey! Look at you!" Topanga cried arms outstretched to Eric who was already engulfing Shawn in his own hug.

Eric shook his head. "I am sorry, but I must avoid any physical greetings for the time being. My mission is too important."

Topanga looked at him quizzically, but then brushed it off as just an Eric eccentricity. Some things never changed.

"Hey, Topanga," a soft greeting came from the poet bound by Eric's large arms.

And then again, some things did.

"Shawn," Topanga acknowledged.

What occurred then wasn't a stare down.

An accurate analogy would be that Shawn was a Labrador and Topanga was a German Shepherd and they were sniffing each other out.

They looked each other over mulling over in their minds who the other person was—what threat the other person was to their well being. Finally, Topanga concluded that Shawn wasn't a threat. His best friend was, but Shawn didn't look like he hated her. He wasn't a threat.

"Can you let go of him so that I can hug him, please?"

"No can do, Pangers." Eric nodded. "I am under strict orders to never let him go under penalty of death."

"Under penalty of a swift kick in the pants, Eric. Let her hug the man!" Angela said with a slight joke in her voice.

Topanga reached out for Shawn, and Shawn, however reluctantly, reached out to embrace Topanga.

She thought she heard him say into her hair, _"Something's rotten in the state of Denmark,"_ but before Topanga could figure out if it was her imagination, or if the Shakespearean quote was a message in code and what it meant, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," Angela said, her voice suddenly stiff.

**Cory Matthews**

He had a gift, he had flowers and he had several conversation cards tucked into his pockets. Beside those cards were apologies tucked, but ready to be whipped out at a moment's notice.

He was ready.

He could face Topanga, Feeny, Shawn, _his in-laws _if he had to. He was armed with conversation cards, and a conversationally prepared Cory was not someone that anyone wanted to mess with.

Even so, it took him ten straight minutes to dredge up the courage to ring the doorbell, and all of his self-restraint not to hit the ground running as the sound resonated through Feeny's house.

He'd leave the flowers and presents on the mat and they'd never be able to find him if he checked out of his hotel and caught a train back to the city before seven.

But his planning was interrupted by Angela's voice.

"Hey, Cory."

He couldn't help it. He was excited to see her. Besides, Angela was _that much_ closer to Topanga; and that made him pretty darn happy despite his flight reflex kicking in only seconds before.

He cupped her entire body in a hug and spun her around.

"Angela! Buddy! How ya been?"

**Topanga Lawrence-Matthews**

The house wasn't small, but Cory's signature good-natured voice rang clear through the doorway into Topanga's ears.

Um, wow.

She'd underestimated what he did to her. 6 months had apparently been enough to make her forget how much of an affect that he'd had on her. But once his voice and the realization that in only a few seconds Cory's warm figure would grace the kitchen hit her, everything came back to her.

She grabbed Shawn's jacket sleeve, but he was having a crisis of his own, gaping at the open archway that connected the kitchen to the hallway that connected to Cory. He couldn't help her. And what kind of pathetic was she to want to hide behind Shawn anyway? Simply because they had a small fight.

But she couldn't help it.

She was scared.

Topanga Lawrence-Matthews was scared.

Because she knew that once she saw Cory Matthews, she was going to die.

**Shawn Hunter**

_"Upon graduating from college, Shawn Hunter…"_

Screw that.

This was his best friend. Cory and Shawn, the eternal friendship. When he heard his best friend's voice, he couldn't understand why he'd distanced himself from Cory in the first place. He felt incredibly stupid and juvenile. Cory had the Tonka tractor that Shawn wanted, and to take out his revenge on his best friend, he'd stopped speaking to him.

_Cory was his best friend_. Shawn had never needed to lie to Cory. Had never needed to pretend to be someone else. Cory had always accepted him as he was.

Except when Shawn had been moronic.

So how would he react to Shawn's stupidest move yet?

But then, Shawn would cross that bridge when he got to it. For now, he had a hallway to cross. A hallway that led to his best friend.

**Angela Moore**

Shawn came bounding down the hall. Angela had to make a quick decision and slide out of the way to avoid the collision between friends.

Despite the awkward situation, Angela quirked a smile.

The two boys shouted greetings at each other and eventually their screams unraveled into randomness. It didn't matter. They were simply celebrating being together.

"So!" Cory called out, his arm slung around Shawn's shoulders. At Shawn's smile—the first smile she'd seen from him in years—Angela's chest constricted. "Where's the birthday boy?"

Oh yeah.

"He's, uh…" Cory looked at her, although Shawn looked somewhere above her left shoulder. "He's coming."

Cory nodded as though that was enough for him, but Shawn continued to look at her shoulder with suspicion. Then his gaze lifted to meet Angela's eyes with an accusation. Something was up. He knew.

Angela was quick to shake him off. "Let's go into the kitchen, shall we?" she said crisply, trying to assure Shawn that there was nothing going on.

She actually didn't need to pretend for much longer. Eventually the three friends would catch on that something was not right when they realized that no other guests would arrive.

"So, who else is already here?" Cory inquired.

Shawn looked to Angela and Angela looked to Shawn. They had no time to be embarrassed about catching each others' eyes so naturally. Even if Shawn didn't know the full extent of Angela's plans, he still knew that ex + ex did not a comfortable situation make.

"Hello, Cory."

**Cory Matthews**

Looking at her made him ache.

He couldn't drop his arm from around Shawn; he had to lean on his best friend just to keep himself from crumpling to the floor. He was sure he felt drool.

He was also very sure that if he didn't hold her, his arms would fall off.

**Topanga Lawrence-Matthews**

She was going to die.

So long, world.

And, y'know, she was okay with dying. She only wished that the process would speed up, that her heart would finally burst, that her stomach would constrict till it finally tore because staring at him, still alive, knowing that she couldn't ever have him, _hurt_.

Having to wonder if he was in as much pain as she was.

Having to realize that he probably wasn't, and the look on his face was just a reaction to the fully awkward situation.

Having to understand that she wasn't going to die and this aching wasn't going to end.

All produced pain.

**Cory Matthews**

He wanted to run. If he couldn't wrap his arms around her, if he couldn't embrace her, then he was just going to have to be someplace where she wasn't. Someplace where it didn't hurt so much.

He unwove his arm from around Shawn's neck and made to run—

but a bulky figure in a blue suit halted his escape.

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you do that," Eric announced, his palm facing Cory.

"Eric, move out of the way," Cory ordered. He didn't have time for whatever the heck was Eric's problem. He had to get away.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, little brother."

"And why not?"

"Because Sir Angela has ordered me to not let any of you leave the premises."

Cory's eyes narrowed. "What?" He looked from Eric to Angela and back again.

Angela closed her eyes and shook her head. She walked over to Eric and kicked him lightly in the shins. Of course, Eric, being Eric, dramatized everything. He grabbed his leg and began hopping around as though in agony… leaving the doorway free.

Cory made for a mad dash, but was stopped—this time by Angela.

He turned around to look at her dark brown eyes that seared into him. She had his collar in a death grip, and yanked it back so that Cory turned to face her. Her once angry stare softened.

"Sorry, but I really can't let you go."

"Tell Feeny that his present's on the counter, that I'm sorry, but I can't be here—"

"Why can't you be here?" Though her gaze had softened, her voice still held a commanding attitude. "Why are you running away?"

Cory opened his mouth to speak, but Shawn interrupted.

"Angela, where's Feeny?"

"I'm right here, Mr. Hunter."

Feeny descended from the stairs, looking over each of his old students. Cory looked at him, then to Shawn, then to Angela, and finally voiced his reiterating thought. "All righty—_what_ is going on?"

"Ms. Moore, I think that it's time you told them."

Cory looked to Angela. She finally dropped his collar, and he rubbed his sore neck all the while still looking at her.

Even with three curious and slightly annoyed adults staring at her, Angela's voice didn't waver.


	4. Chapter 4

**Shawn Hunter**

"When I came back, I know exactly what I expected. It was selfish of me, maybe, to think that your lives would pause as mine went on and that, when I finally did come back, I'd just pick up where I left off."

Was it his imagination, or did Angela's eyes flicker to Shawn? And did they hold just a hint of remorse?

He looked away.

"And then I came back, and I realized that I was stupid and naïve, because, reality-check Angela Moore, _nothing_ was the same. My favorite couple was estranged, and both of them were miserable. And—and they weren't speaking to their best friend. It was all _wrong_. So I went to Mr. Feeny, and I told him that I had a plan to fix it." Angela gestured to Feeny who still stood on the stairs, his hand elegantly resting on the banister. He nodded in acknowledgement.

"I understand that my plan may seem insensitive to you. It may seem like I'm just trying to get everything back to the way it was three years ago because it's convenient for _me_." Angela's voice broke. "But that's not true. You all look _miserable_, and I couldn't stand it. So I had to do something about it."

Nobody said anything. Shawn had a lot to say, but he didn't know how to put his words together to form something coherent. So he kept quiet.

Angela cleared her throat.

"Remember how on the invitation it said that Mr. Feeny would be providing your accommodations?"

Shawn nodded and saw that Topanga and Cory followed suit.

"Well. You're all staying _here_."

_Ka-boom._

"Angela, you're—" Topanga started

"You're psychotic," finished Cory. "I love you, but I think that you're insane."

"And how _dare_ you? What gives you the right?" Shawn's voice towered over everyone's. He saw Angela shoot him a fleeting, shocked look, but then she evened her gaze and addressed Cory.

"I don't think that I'm crazy," Angela defended herself.

"Oh, no, dah-ling, you're _clearly_ off your coo-koo clock," Cory insisted.

**Angela Moore**

Angela frowned. This wasn't the way this was supposed to go. Of course, she hadn't expected that they were all going to fall in line, that's why she had Eric. She just hadn't expected accusations on her mental health, that's all.

"Angela."

She heard him. She heard his voice command her to pay heed to him, to turn around and face him. She just chose to ignore him.

"I'm just trying to help you. I don't like that you two can't speak to each other without those tear-inducing faces. Do you _know_ how sad you look?"

"Look, Angela, thank you for this. I mean—it's nice to know that you care. But I don't think we can be fixed."

At Topanga's words, Cory's face fell to the bottom-most pits of hell.

Angela grabbed her friend's shoulders and turned her to look at her ex husband.

"Look at that!" Angela insisted. Cory tried to right his face, she could tell by the writhing of his features.

"Angela."

His persistent calling itched at her. His voice seemed unstable, like any moment he was about to erupt. She wondered how long she could ignore him before she was forced to deal with what he'd have to say. It scared her.

"Hey! Don't make me the pathetic case!" Cory cried.

"I'm… _not_!" Angela struggled to make her friends see what she was getting at. She started to turn to Topanga, but something yanked her into a spin until she faced Shawn.

His hand gripped her arm.

"I—uh—"

**Shawn Hunter**

"Do you know what you sound like right now?"

Angela stared up at him, words on the slip of her tongue, but Shawn interrupted her.

"You sound like every person I've ever known who told me that I was screwing up my life and that unless I accepted their help, I was going to end up like my father. A deadbeat. Living in a crappy minute trailer with debts piled so high the stack made Kilimanjaro look like an ant hill." Never mind that it was true. That wasn't the point.

"I would always, _always,_ stare them back in the face and tell them that if they weren't _perfect_ if they weren't _God-like_ then they had no right to lecture me about how to run my life. You have no right, Angela. You're not perfect. You're life isn't so nicely packaged either." Unless it is. Unless it already is packaged, with shipping and handling and Shawn Hunter not included.

But he tried to ignore that.

He opened his mouth to go off on her some more, but Mr. Feeny's crisp Boston accent filled the air instead.

"Actually, Shawn, you're right."

Heads turned. Feeny had finally descended all the way until he stood in the wake of the stairs, looking at the scene unraveling before him. Shawn glared at the old man. So he had been in this, too. All his life Feeny had been instructing Shawn how to live his life.

But, you know, maybe if he'd listened his life would have turned out better.

_But that wasn't the point._

"Feeny—"

"That is why," Feeny's voice clipped the heels of Shawn's accusation, "I canceled the reservation at your hotel, Ms. Moore."

Angela's eyes narrowed.

"Why would you do that, Mr. Feeny?"

"So that you can stay here. While it is honorable that you are helping your friends put their lives back together, I have been watching you, and I believe that Mr. Hunter is correct. You still have some holes to patch up, if I'm not mistaken."

"Well you _are_ mistaken—" Angela snapped, but Feeny cut her off as well.

"I am not sorry for what I did, Ms. Moore. There are hanging threads that need to be tied between these three with you included."

Angela glowered at Feeny. Obviously this had not been part of the plan, and she wasn't quite sure how to react. She was no longer in control. She always hated it when she wasn't in control.

Her fists shook by her side, and as though through a sudden eruption, Angela rushed from the room.

Was it wrong that Shawn felt a smidge (just a smidge) of satisfaction that this time it was _Angela_ running away in a huff?

Probably.

He smiled anyway.

**Angela Moore**

Insufferable old man. She was fine. _Her life_ didn't need fixing. Everyone else's did! And what right did he have to claim that after one glimpse of how she lived her life, she suddenly needed to change everything in order to be happy?

Oh, God.

Pot-kettle-black, huh?

Angela ran her hand through her hair in frustration. She tried to be humble, tried to look at her life through the eyes of Feeny.

She had a successful job. Check.

She had great friends. Check.

She had… erm… uh… well… she had other things going for her as well!

But that's not what Feeny was talking about, was it?

She had other things… but she didn't have Shawn.

"Angela…"

She looked around to see Topanga bounding after her. She kicked herself inside. This was her plan—and yes, it was tearing at the seams, but how could she have abandoned them? Ugh. What… what did Shawn think?

Topanga laid a hand on Angela's shoulder. Angela righted herself, threw her shoulders back and looked Topanga square in the eye.

"It's a good thing you were trying to do. But… you've been away for a while…"

A nice way to say _You left us for three years_. It would have been said that way through Shawn's lips.

"… and there's a lot you don't know. Like, _why _Cory and I broke apart. You try to fix us, but you don't know _why_ we're broken."

"Care to tell me?" Angela asked, glad that she was the one asking questions now and _other_ people were answering and faltering.

But Topanga wasn't having that. She looked Angela in the eye as well and smirked as though she knew something Angela didn't. Despite losing some ground with Topanga's sardonic grin, Angela smiled back. This exchange felt like, well, it felt like _before_ all the madness. Before Angela went away.

"I'll tell you what happened with Cory and I, if you tell me what happened with you and Shawn."

Angela's face froze.

"You know, he blames you."

**Shawn Hunter**

The situation was easily remedied. Get a hotel room. Feeny wasn't their teacher anymore; he had no leverage over them. He could no longer threaten an F (not that the threat had worked on Shawn anyway) or a suspension or tattletale to their parents. They were adults.

So why did it only take one glare from Mr. Feeny to make Shawn sit down, shut his mouth, and pick at his cake without a moment of objection?

Cory did the same and when it was clear that the girls weren't coming back anytime soon, Feeny tried to start a conversation.

Shawn tried to shut him down with a comment on his very stylish, very hip party hat, but that did not faze Feeny. Shawn's sarcasm never did.

"So. What's happening in your life these days, boys?"

Something told Shawn that Feeny would see through his ruse as well. He suddenly felt like his pocket was transparent, that everyone at the table (except Eric who was distracted by his cake) could see straight through his jeans to the folded lie and then straight through that, as well, to the truth.

"Where do you live?" Feeny supplied.

Shawn said nothing. Stuffed himself with cake and let Cory inform their old teacher that he was still living in New York in a lovely apartment in blah, blah, blah.

"So. You and Topanga. How is that going?"

Cory tensed, and Shawn tore himself away from his cake wondering how Cory was going to answer that.

"The short answer, Feeny, is that I'm miserable. But, hey, I got a question for you: What the heck are you and Angela doing?"

Feeny placed his fork down on his plate at 2 o'clock. He cleared his throat and looked from Cory's eyes to Shawn's and back again, speaking to Cory.

"Angela came to me the day after she arrived in New York." Shawn couldn't help it. He was interested. "She went to visit you, Cory, and then she went to visit Topanga. She found out about the rift between you and Topanga, and between you and Mr. Hunter. She then came to me asking me to help her with a plan to heal this rift."

"And your plan was to lock us together in a house for three days?"

Mr. Feeny said nothing, moved not. Mirroring his teaching methods, he let them draw their own conclusions.

"What if I'm fine with the way things are?" Shawn asked thickly.

Mr. Feeny turned to him and asked simply, "Are you?"

He wasn't.

**Angela Moore**

"What do you mean he blames me?"

Topanga should have slapped her. It would have hurt less.

Topanga's eyes trailed the bustling fast food joint for something that would keep her attention so she wouldn't have to look at Angela. Finding something wasn't that easy. Especially as Angela gasped, sharply sucking in air. Topanga looked back at her friend to see Angela staring toward Topanga, her features twisted in horror.

"Oh, Angela—"

"Don't. Tell me." Angela struggled to rein her face in. Struggled for control. "He blames…"

"You didn't come back, Angela, and the only way he knew how to handle that kind of pain was to lash out on everyone around him. He started to resent me and Cory for… being together. He moved out and to—well I don't know where. He stopped speaking to us. He dropped out of our life. But on the way out, he told us that he blamed…" Topanga swallowed, "you."

Angela tried to be furious with him, she really did. She looked at his insensitivity and his irrationality and something inside of her said that Shawn was acting like a _child_ and that the only thing she should feel toward him was anger.

But she couldn't, because it was all her fault.

**Topanga Lawrence**

She missed this. Angela was easy to talk to. She was honest with you, but she'd only tell you how stupid she thought you were _after_ you finished telling your tale, and usually she'd say it in such a way that you'd think _Golly, I really was stupid_.

This time Topanga already knew she was stupid. She was afraid of her friend's critical reaction, but she knew as long as she kept talking, Angela would save her comments. Topanga headed into her story with all the emotion of a convict heading to the chair.

"After Shawn moved out, we decided that someone needed to fill that empty bedroom in our apartment. A baby. We tried, Angela… but nothing was enough. We couldn't seem to put one and one together and make something of it.

"I grew angry. And hurt. These emotions grew out of frustration. I took it out on Cory and things grew ugly."

Topanga was winding down, waiting for Angela's verdict.

"I said some things that I shouldn't have. He told me he thought we should separate for a while. So I left. And… and here we are."

Topanga waited. Sipped coffee nervously. Wanted to just about barf.

Finally, Angela's stagnant face moved from indifference. Her eyes shifted and though they'd been pointed toward Topanga the entire time, something in them moved to _look_ at her, actually sense the person in front of her.

"First—don't _ever_ leave the person you love. Don't _ever—"_

And then Angela Moore broke.

**Angela Moore**

She couldn't face him again. She couldn't walk back into the house, not when the dam had finally burst, not now when she had no control over her emotions.

Angela _hated _not being in control.

"It's all my fault—" she whined to her best friend.

Was that really her voice? Angela Moore, daughter of a Sergeant Major who had always instilled how valuable a blank face was? No. Couldn't be. Then who?

"Honey—" Angela discerned by Topanga's voice that she was crying as well. Crud. Here they were in a public place surrounded by teenagers and they were bawling to flood the place.

Somehow, Angela managed to put a thought together that didn't reek of Shawn. Somehow, she managed to string together letters to words to a coherent sentence. "We have to leave."

She looked at her best friend through tears that she furiously tried to wipe away.

"Let's go," she restated hoping that for the second time around, her voice would sound more commanding-like and that she'd lose the weeping tone of a broad whose life came crashing down because she cheated on her diet. She sounded that pathetic.

"Back?" Topanga asked, warily, not wanting to face her sorrow's counterpart.

Angela sucked in a sharp breath.

"Back."


End file.
